Of Fallen Stars
by KingofThorns
Summary: Ashara never leapt from the Palestone tower to die upon rocky shores below. Instead she lived to raise the child that survived the birthing bed, her child, Alaric. With both the blood of winter and that of fallen stars within his veins, it is not a question of 'if' he can change the game, but how.
1. Prologue: Part 1

**Ashara**

It had been a difficult decision to make, leaving her nephew as young as he was in the care of others, but here the lady of Starfall was, watching on from the darkened alcove as her sister and child played, their laughter joining in with the other children that splashed about the pool, rippling waves reflecting light upon youthful faces. She smiled, then, a rare and true one that brought a light to her hues, hidden as they were at beholding such reckless joy.

And then for the life of her, Ashara could not understand why feelings of nostalgia crept upon her, not when presented with a scene offering so many happier memories to be cherished than the ones nagging at minds corner. Reluctantly, she returned, mind's eye picturing Harrenhall all those years ago.

It was but a simple dance that had spawned so much of her hearts ache in a tourney that was meant to honour a daughter. To display House Whent's wealth. Ten days of extravagance, five days of jousting, and an entire year of heightening tension that culminated in a war that bringing about more misery than anyone expected.

Children she loved like her own slaughtered alongside a woman she counted a sister. And at the end of it, the life of a brother she held closer to her heart than all else before.

She recalled with perfect clarity how her once beloved Ned had come before her still mired in his own grief, Dawn in hands, even now as she hovered in the shadows with haunting eyes, imagining more Stark features than there were to her son, who's true black hair and clung to neck and layered forehead haphazardly, wet from cool waters.

She remembered the look in Ned's eyes, grey and weary when was revealed that the babe she bore; equal parts relief and shame. She knew she would have leapt from the Palestone tower, dashed her body upon the rocks below to end her sorrow in a moment of weakness for Arthur's loss were it not for the cries that had erupted inside his crib and broke her from grief stricken purpose.

And she hated him for that pain, but not so much as she hated the man truly responsible for all. A grimace grew on a face too lovely for such an expression to hold. The prince they had all been waiting to take the throne, to bring an end to the madness. But Rhaegar Targaryen was no better, only more skilled at hiding his own, and she damned him along with the rest of Westeros for that.

Bitter memories fading at long last with her curse, her vision returned to the sight of children upon pool's edge; red faced and flush from equal parts exuberance and the cast sun, snacking upon blood oranges as they babbled.

Alaric was the loudest, she estimated, which could have been discerned by animation alone had she no prior experience with the hellion. It amused her to no end thinking on how people spoke of his wildness due in large part the wolfsblood that his father's side was known for.

Or how much they took to the tales spread after. What story flowed from minstrel's mouth spoke of a tragic love of a wolf that chased after a star. Strange, how one simple bard could accomplish so much despite being given so little coin. Annoying the Tully trout was just a bonus.

The more intelligent wondered why the Lady of Starfall was allowed to keep her violet eyed boy whilst the other was taken for a time, others why she had not simply been allowed to retain custody of both. Some answered that it was because Ned could not stand to gaze so closely upon a face that resembled the woman he could not have, or that of a legendary knight slain in vain.

Drawn from musing by pair of tiny hands tugging upon the skirts of her dress, Ashara looked down to meet Alaric's worried gaze. Her brow hiked in question before swiftly noting how one of his arms pointed away from form. Following it, she found a guard, spear in hand, awaiting her pleasure. In her drifting she missed the calling of her own name.

No wonder then why her rambunctious child's voice had become so silent, the cessation of noise more evident now than it was before as she realized the other children looking to her as well. All was still save the sounds of ruffling leaves, a creaking of wooden limbs and the whispers of passing zephyr.

She could not keep delaying, denying Doran his request in spite of knowing it was out of her hands.

Eyes slipping shut whilst her shoulders slumped dejectedly, Ashara released sigh and knelt. Damn them all. She brushed aside the sable locks matting the boy's forehead before pressing tender kiss "Back to your friend's darling, I won't be just a minute with your uncle."

When he nodded, solemn if only a moment, she was strongly reminded of Ned. It stunned her still to see traits of the quiet wolf in him. In the next he was off, feet slapping against marble floor before thunderous clap sounded as he cannoned into pool, wetting friends in the process.

She stood there a scant second longer, in some ways having felt that she spoke farewell. Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Ashara rose to face the guard, and with a stern nod, followed.

* * *

><p>In truth it was more than a minute.<p>

"I am sorry Ashara, but we cannot afford to-"

"Spare me your apologies Doran." She snapped, furious not only at the gout stricken man but at the King and his court, Jon Arryn most of all. "You and I both know he wants my son only for the prestige our name brings, not for his well-being or a chance to right a wrong. What they desire is another Sword of the Morning to restore some semblance of honour and glory to the poor excuse the Kingsguard has become."

"Be that as it may, what the King wants, we shall for the moment, provide. We cannot allow for further tension to be sown between Dorne and the Iron Throne, not now that they have cemented themselves with Greyjoy's defeat. The wounds of the last war have yet to mend and can all too easily be reopened..."

"So we are to simply give away one of her sons to placate a man that condones the murder of children? Of _Elia_?" Oberyn was almost as scathing in response as her if in tone only.

"If it means that no more of our people bleed, yes, Oberyn. You need not like it, but_ you will_ abide my decision now as you did last."

A glance brought knowledge of how the second Princes contorting visage matched Ashara's own foul mood as the reminder of who held the power was made.

Of course she knew why he was incensed; Alaric was to be his afore letter came bearing royal seal addressed to the Prince. This was just another slight in his ink black eyes akin to venom amongst the ever growing list of travesties Dorne suffered.

But truthfully, she could not care less about his discontent nor the vitriol between brothers Martell as she returned attention once more as the only voice that held reasonable tone continued.

"Despite what Daeron's tales claim, the truth remains that when Aerys called, we sent forth a great deal of our army for Lewyn to command. Now they lie dead aside our beloved Uncle, their numbers yet to be fully replenished."

Striding forward, Ashara upraised her palms and made one final plea, throat thick with emotion "Both my brothers lay dead Doran, my good-sister too from the birthing bed not two years past. You ask me to abandon my son to that wretched city, separated from all the family that remains his all for a meaningless knight hood. He will be alone, undefended."

"It is there you are wrong, Ashara" Doran softly assured. "I have written Jon Arryn, and so it will be that Alaric shall have Barristan Selmy to call his knight master. Naught will happen to the boy under his guidance."

With a smile fraught with sadness, he reached out for Ashara's hands, a request she could gladly grant this time. Fear still pulled at her heart seeking to nestle at her core, but at least this was small comfort.

"I would not see the boy of a woman as dear to my sister as you were without proper protection, lest I would not have acquiesced."


	2. Prologue: Part 2

**Doran**

A brisk wind stole past the drapes, carrying nights chill as it sent the thin mauve sheets softly fluttering inwards. Inside candle flames flickered, pulled by breeze, sending shadows dancing upon rich carpet and across desk. The sound of quill upon parchment ceased, wizened eyes turning, attention caught by the bright tongues of fire. Setting the feathered pen back to settle within ink pot, the man took pause, daring to gaze at the light of stars peeking through the window.

He continued to gaze upon them, long after the breeze had died and his chambers darkened once more, curtains returning to obscure heavens light, denying its entrance.

His hands, folded upon lap as he leaned into the back of his wheelchair, could pass for normal then, he mused, in the dark as they were. He could imagine them, not swollen and angrily red, but strong and firm, capable once more of wielding blade, of scribing letters without pain, feeling the softness of another without the reluctance the pity or disgust they tried to mask. How unfitting, for a warrior to suffer such an affliction as gout.

Now, for him, there was only the cyvasse board.

His hues disappeared behind closing eyelids, and what time he could afford himself to dream he took, simply imagining what it would be like to once more feel capable until the moment he heard footsteps. Closer and closer, they echoed in the empty halls, breaking their silence to stop before the door of his solar. Even without reopening eyes, he could tell who it would be.

The knock came, a pleasantry that was ignored more often than not, signaling the presence he already knew of, had been expecting for quite some time, followed by the creaking noise of the door swinging open. It was only by the grace of his brother's paramour that he been allowed so long a reprieve.

Doran waited, mind sharpening, pushing away impossible dreams. There was a more realistic one to discuss, one that had only just suffered setback. Two pair of feet entered, one that padded softly on bare soles, the other clad in leather and accompanied by the shifting of mail.

"Tell me true Doran, why is it that we do not simply tell her? You have avoided this for too long."

An unexpected query, he thought as eyelids cracked open wearily and shifted to look upon his junior. Hair disheveled and tunic partway open to reveal a triangle of tanned flesh all the way down to his belt, the Viper appeared in a state that he the women of their court fantasized about. He guessed he had only just been released by Ellaria.

Doran arched a brow, waiting expectantly for him to proceed. All the while Areo Hotah stood with back braced against wall, steady grip upon the shaft of his long axe as it stood tall next to him. It was touching, how the Norvosi stood vigil like always, yet saddening in a way as well, how the bearded man might actually perceive Oberyn capable of kinslaying.

Though their conversations could often be intense, he knew such a conclusion just as impossible as him rising out the wheelchair to be proclaimed cured.

"We already planned on using the boy, once properly trained and knighted to guard our pieces across the sea...Surely there are ways she can aid us?"

With a gesture to the seat across from his desk, the Lord of Sunspear began.

"Yes, the boy was very much a piece on which we had counted upon Oberyn, but only because we would have had time to persuade the boy, assure his loyalty to our cause. It is problematic, this turn of events, yes, but it is not as dire as you make it out to be. It remains to be seen if this is in actuality a fortunate turn."

Seeing his brother about to protest, Doran held up a hand, begging for patience. "I know you would have very much liked to train the next Sword of Morning, but the possibility did exist, that no matter how skilled your instruction, the boy would not prove as susceptible we as wished. Just as he carries the potential to be another Arthur, so too does he have it in him to be like his kin to the North. Wild, stubborn…honourable. That same honour could have seen him deny Viserys and Daenerys his aid on account of the Uncle and Grandfather slain by Aerys, or by simple virtue to avoid war."

"You think two Northerners from a family he has not seen nor communicated with could create so grand a predicament? From Ashara's apparent apathy to them, I do not see how..."

Doran watched as his brother leaned forward, a hand lifting to touch chin half in thought. "But I will cede the point for the nonce. However, you fail to reveal sufficient excuse for us not to confide in her."

Sighing heavily, the gout stricken man pushed back his chair so it was closer to the desk, plucking the feather from its ink-pot to begin writing anew. An action which he noted puzzled his brother.

"Lady Dayne has lost much. A lover, a brother and another again, and _possibly _son. If we allow her our secrets, we leave ourselves vulnerable. You forget, she knows how to play the games and bares no love for any dragon save Elia's children."

A long quiet reigned in the room heavy with thought, broken only by the scratchy scrawling of quill.

"...You believe she would betray us?" Oberyn inquired, equal parts incredulity and curiosity writ upon features.

"I believe a great many things Oberyn. Right now I believe not all remains lost when it comes to Alaric, that handing him over to squire for the White Cloaks may work to our favor given time. That one young knight won't truly amount to much when it comes to protecting Rhaella Targaryen's children."

With a few strokes more of the quill, Doran finished the final line and signed in his name, sprinkling dust afterwards for it to dry.

Weakly did he then slide it across to the desks edge, gesturing for it to be taken its contents to be revealed. Time ticked slowly by as Oberyn reached for the letter, fingers deftly lifting parchment up to eye level, and read the inked lettering.

"And above all, I believe a mother will do whatever she deems necessary to see her child safe."


	3. Prologue: Part 3

Despite the disappointment, Alaric, sitting as he was inside the window of his room to gaze upon the sprawling city with one leg dangling out to hang, his other tented upon the sill with hand on knee, admitted everything wasn't as terrible as everyone made it out to be.

It was about a hundred times worse.

Wherever he went, he elicited rumors, thinly veiled insults hidden behind conversational niceties and halfhearted smiles that never reached the eyes of those he caught openly staring. He figured he ought to be at least thankful some of the ones he caught trying to glance sneakily in his direction from the corner of their eyes at least had the shame to abashedly look away.

It was near overwhelming, the shift from people who welcomed him back home, treating him kindly, to this. In Dorne, no one cared about the identity of his father and he had been treated just as any other child would be. But here? Here his very existence was an offense, one that needed to be questioned at every turn from people who had no business doing so.

No one seemed to want him forgetting that he was a bastard. And Dornish. He wasn't sure which people thought was worse, though that might have easily been the same to these false Southrons.

And it wasn't even like he wanted to _be _in King's Landing, would rather be back home in Starfall, staring out at the Sea from the Palestone Tower, but even then he knew it wouldn't be the same. '_Not with mother having married some marcher lord while I'm squiring in this squalor', _he thought. A means to burying the past with the Stormlands, his mother had told them on their way north, her for a wedding, him as one last stop.

A wedding which he had found muted and boring, the only bright side being the man wasn't a dolt and in time he'd have more siblings. Allyria too would be gone, soon enough at least, marrying into another House to strengthen Dayne's ties.

So maybe not Starfall with all its soon to be emptiness, he acceded, with a groan, head falling back to thunk forcefully upon the stone his back was already braced against, near wincing because he hadn't expected to _use _that much force. The Water Gardens then, where at least he could find comfort surrounded by all his other _bastard _friends.

Not having to constantly deal with an aching head from the plethora of smells constantly assailing his senses would have been welcome too. He missed the scent of spice and sweet fruits, but more than that he missed the smell of the ocean, never having thought that King's Landing's filth could overpower it when despite their being so close to it.

With an aggravated breath exhaled from his lungs and scowl for an expression, the boy finally swung himself away from the window and landed with a clap, boots connecting to the floor of his room. Though he abhorred the current conditions of his life, he grudgingly admitted that despite his treatment the room they had given him was at least nice.

Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to furnish the rooms in the colours of his House. Silver trim upon curtains and sheets of heavy velvet embroidered with bursting platinum stars, masterly crafted furniture, desk and chairs the colour of burnished wood. Even the new wardrobe that had been awaiting him within what he considered a monstrously oversized cabinet looked fit for a prince more than a knight.

Then again, he thought to himself as he moved over to a table, hand reaching for the glass bowl of fruit, it could all very well be standard treatment for those staying within the Red Keep. He had been here scantly a day and had seen none of the quarters that belonged to other nobles, and of those he had seen, all were dressed in fineries that could do nothing less than make them stand out in any crowd to try and signify greater importance than they had.

As he plucked an apple from the bowl, which he now noted had been fired to look like criss crossing stars, and sunk his teeth into it he gave a sardonic chuckle. Bastard he may be, but at least he didn't pretend to be anything more than what he was, unlike the courtiers he would be surrounded by for the foreseeable future.

A knock upon the door followed by the soft call of his name drew his attention, body swivelling just as it opened to reveal a familiar if not at the moment stern face, one of his household guards that had followed him north as an escort. There was something odd to his posture too now that he thought about it...

"My Lord, the...Queen, has summoned you."

Brow furrowing, Alaric chewed slowly upon the chunk of apple still in his mouth, suddenly bereft of curiosity at his man's disposition. With his wrist he wiped at his chin to clear away any juice that had escaped from his lips. Of all the people he had been expecting to come calling, she had not be one of them. Swallowing, he found it somewhat frightening. Mother always told him to watch and be wary, especially of those in the royal family and those close to him.

And now Queen Cersei wanted to see him.

Finding his mouth suddenly dry and a newfound lump in his throat, he swallowed again, nervously this time, and nodded to his guardian. Taking another bite, he followed after the man and tried not to choke on it before hesitantly uttering a question.

"Niall...why, exactly, does the Queen want to see me?"

When Niall spoke, he finally recognized an emotion that had escaped him at the announcement. Anger.

"It is mere gossip..."

More gossip. But Niall would never dare repeat it if he didn't believe it. His gut sunk.

"Niall..."

"Some of my men overheard of the guards… servants. Apparently, the Queen wishes to meet the boy that is to be _The Kingslayer's _new squire."

The apple slipped from Alaric's fingers and fell with a thump, pieces breaking apart on contact. The Kingslayer. Not Barristan Selmy. Jaime Lannister. It explained why the King hadn't seen him since his arrival. And it suddenly made Jon Arryn's absence more questionable.

Swallowing, Alaric quickly donned a smile that was all teeth as the sound of his fallen apple drew the attention of Niall. Brushing the back if his fingers over the chest of his doublet, he gave a lackadaisical response in the hopes that his unease wouldn't show.

"Oh? Is that all?"

All other thought was driven from his mind by one singular, blaring truth that threatened to make him panic over all else. Mother was _not_ going to be pleased.


End file.
